Which Way Are You Going
by Jejunus
Summary: A look so quick, a movement so slight, you could almost imagine it didn't just happen-Former Courier Joan returns to Zion to tell Joshua Graham that Caesar is dead and that New Vegas and Hoover Dam now belong to her. Some days we fall harder than others. This is the first part of my series, Learnin' the Blues.
1. Better Strangers

Chapter 1: Better Strangers

 _I'm a thousand miles from danger if I make a better stranger of you_

Zion. The valley sprawled out before Joan, as majestic as it had been the first time she set foot there. Nearly three weeks had elapsed since she left New Vegas, and she was still high from her victory at Hoover Dam. The Mojave—for now at least—was safe. The Fiends were spread thinner than ever, the Legion was back on their side of the Colorado and the Securitrons that patrolled Vegas now extended their reach into the furthest outskirts of Primm and the reconstruction of Nipton. Novac was resistant, but Joan would see them come around in time, ideally peacefully. Even Nellis Airforce Base hosted two Securitrons of its own; the Boomers had been less than enthusiastic about this change, but they would deal with it.

The time was ripe for Joan to get out and stretch her legs again. With the Mojave as safe as it had likely ever been since even before the Great War, there was no better time for her to slip away. She had promised Cass, Boone and Arcade that she would be safe, against their combined better judgment, and that Yes Man would do a fine job supervising the Strip while she was gone for a month or two. The trip up north had been relatively safe, even for a woman traveling alone. The occasional small band of raiders and gangs had been easy enough to evade, and she only had to defend herself a handful of times during the entire journey. It went by much faster than it had before, when she was with the Happy Trails Caravan.

The afternoon air hung thick with fresh rainfall causing Joan's glasses to fog as she descended into the valley. It looked exactly as it had a few months prior, spires of rock jutting from the ground under a sky so richly blue a prewar postcard would have been envious. The air was fresher than in Vegas, sharp sage combined with a deep salty earthiness. The only thing Joan truly missed was the hubbub of Vegas—Zion was deathly silent. No sound of children running, gamblers boasting their wins and sobbing their losses, Securitrons wheeling around trying to corral the lurching drunks that stumbled across the Strip. The only noises in Zion were the skittering of critters, an occasional distant Yao Guai roar, or if you were particularly keen of hearing, the light footsteps of a Sorrow. During her previous visit Joan could have sworn she could hear her blood pumping through her veins as she rested in the Dead Horse camp at night.

There were a few unfortunate things in Zion however, and Joan stood before them now—the desiccated corpses of Jed Masterson, Stella and the rest of the Happy Trails Caravan, dried and picked clean, badly preserved by the scorched desert air and rainfall. Joan swept off her black desperado hat as she passed them, mouthing a silent prayer. She thought back to her first day in Zion. It seemed a lifetime away now. What had initially been a breath of fresh air to distract herself from the looming threat of the Legion had crashed and burned as soon as it had started. She had felt cursed for a moment, feeling as though the poison of the Legion was destined to follow her wherever she went after she had met Follows-Chalk and he explained the White Legs to her.

Some time later Joan passed the small welcome shack that stood near the side of the main road, decorated with white handprints and still littered with cans and bottles, as if time had stood still since her last visit to the canyon. She wondered if Follows-Chalk had ventured forth into the world yet. If he still sought the civilized lands he could do a lot worse than the Mojave, she thought, that perhaps she could convince him to come back with her.

The rest of her walk passed easily—she only wandered off the path to the Eastern Virgin once, and she felt she had done a rather good job given that she didn't have anyone to guide her this time. Like the welcome shack, the road remained unchanged. The heads on pikes, to her distaste, were still present, their flesh rotting and matted with flies in the late evening sun. The smell alone should be a strong enough deterrent for anyone daring to visit, she thought, marching quickly past them with her hand over her mouth and nose.

During the course of her walk the sun had set further and further into the sky, receding below the looming red rock walls of the park and casting deep shadows across the belly of the valley. Joan approached the small dock that stood above the creek leading to the Dead Horse's camp, a hand painted sign perched next to it reading EASTERN VIRGIN, in tall thin letters. She looked up. The crude painting of Joshua Graham still glared down on her, its eyes burning red and bloody, arm thrust cruelly out over the small and helplessly depicted White Legs. She wondered how the Dead Horses had even managed to paint the horrendous thing, and what the man himself thought of his ghoulish depiction standing larger than life. She pulled her eyes away from it before kicking off her shoes, hoisting her pack firmly on her shoulders and hiking up her skirt as far as modesty would allow before stepping into the smooth waters of the creek, making her way up the final leg of her journey.

It was tricky navigating the waters at dusk—more than once she noticed a trap only just before planting her foot right into the middle of it. She hugged the canyon walls as closely as she could, shining the light from her Pipboy on the gently lapping waters, hoping to catch the glint of metal teeth before they caught her.

As she drew closer to the camp she felt a prickling sensation in her belly and dropped to a crouch, stalking—as silently as she could manage, laden as she was—toward the enormous natural arch that opened into the cove. She switched off her Pipboy light and silently withdrew her sniper rifle from her back, setting her shoes down in a dry patch of dirt near the canyon wall. The scope on her sniper rifle was far stronger than any pair of binoculars she had ever come across and it served her well; from this vantage point she could spy at last the Dead Horse's camp. Though the sun had set, they were busy: running laps from one end of the camp to the other, a few engaged in sparring matches, others performing rigorous pushups. They showed no signs of slowing down or stopping for the evening. Joan glanced at the time on her Pipboy. The days were growing longer and longer, she reasoned; it didn't seem unthinkable that they would make the most of the day. She swept the muzzle of her rifle further down the banks and her breath caught in her throat—Joshua Graham was sitting close to the fire with his head bowed, consumed with his bible. She didn't know exactly where she thought he ought to have been—the Angel Cave perhaps—but it caught her off guard that he was sitting openly, one leg drawn up, idly thumbing the pages of his bible. There was that strange titillating sensation within her again. She lowered her gun and replaced it in the holster she kept strapped to her back before quietly bending to scoop up her shoes again. It occurred to her that they likely had no idea she was in the valley; she hadn't seen any Dead Horses during her walk, nor had she spied any Sorrows. The fluttery buzzing in her stomach gave way to apprehension and she hoped they wouldn't open fire on her the moment she stepped out of the archway. She backtracked a few feet before splashing around as noisily as she could, stomping out into open cove, holding her skirt up with one hand and flailing her shoes around above her head with the other. She called out to the camp and prayed for the best.

Joshua Graham's head snapped up first, the Dead Horses following his lead immediately after. A bolt of panic shot through her as she saw his hand fly to his hip.

"It's Joan! It's me," she shouted. "Don't shoot, please!" She let her skirt and shoes fall to the water and raised both hands in submission. Even from a distance she could see confusion and then realization blossom on the narrow strip of Joshua's face that was unobscured by bandages before he visibly relaxed. He stood and gestured to the Dead Horses, saying something to them that she couldn't hear; they resumed their exercises as Joshua waited patiently by the water's edge. Joan retrieved her shoes before quickly wading through the rest of the inlet, stopping to wring out the hem of her skirt once she was on dry land.

"What are you doing here?" Joshua asked, more pointed and direct than she had been expecting. Joan hesitated, her hand darting to her neck to fiddle with the knot of her tie, self conscious.

"I… I wanted to see how you were doing. To check in after everything," she said. She let her hands fall lamely to her sides as Joshua stood before her. It struck her that this was an incredibly flimsy reason for making a three week long journey, alone, across nearly two-hundred miles, some of which had encompassed Legion controlled territory.

"That's very kind of you to check in on us, but it's a long trip from the Mojave," he said. Despite standing in the open cove Joan felt slightly smothered and resisted to urge to fuss with her tie again. She could feel the tips of her ears growing warm.

"But where are my manners. Please, come inside the cave, sit down. I'm sure we have some food and water to spare," Joshua said, stepping politely aside and motioning toward the Angel Cave. Joan walked quickly, passing through the entrance of the cave, glad that Joshua was behind her as she willed her face to return to a normal hue.

Once they had proceeded further into the cave Joshua passed in front of her, leading her to the table he worked at. It was clean this evening, a few guns stacked neatly beside a small oil lamp. Behind the makeshift desk was his usual cinder block seat, and he drew up another for her on the other side of the table. Joan smiled; she admired how simply Joshua and the Dead Horses and Canaanites lived. She adored the splendor of Vegas, but the valley felt like a small safe cocoon, isolated from the Mojave. She didn't think she could ever give up civilized life, but if she had to choose somewhere to live besides New Vegas she thought she could do much worse than Zion. She took her seat as Joshua rustled around in a sack, fishing out a few bottles of purified water and a loaf of bread, placing them on the table as neatly as he had placed his firearms.

Joan thanked him before tucking in. The two made idle talk as she quickly ate her supper; the sharp rise in temperature, whether her trip had been a safe one, finally rounding out to discussion of the Dead Horses.

"Follows-Chalk is gone?" she asked. Joshua did not mirror her disappointment.

"Yes. He took your advice and left to travel to the "civilized lands" a week or so ago," he said. Joan swallowed her bread, her stomach feeling heavy.

"I would have invited him to come along with me. He was good to travel with when I visited before," she said. "I could have helped him dip his toes in the water, you know?"

"He made his choice," Joshua said evenly. The uncomfortable feeling overcame Joan again and she couldn't resist twiddling the buttons at her cuff. Eager to turn the conversation, she decided it was finally time to discuss her other reason for this trip. She cleared her throat and allowed a small smile to cross her face.

"It's a shame, because it's very safe in the Mojave now," she began, "because I've taken Hoover Dam. Caesar is dead."

Joshua's eyebrows rose sharply at this revelation. Joan grinned.

"I saw to it personally. Lucius, his Praetorians, his entire camp, they're all gone. Lanius fell at the Dam," She sat straighter on her cinderblock slab, chin tilted high. "The Dam that I won. From both the Legion _and_ the NCR." The only imperfection in her bubble of pride was the one man who had unfortunately escaped her massacre of Caesar's camp—Vulpes Inculta. She decided she would worry about him later though; she hadn't seen a trace of him since the night she had activated the Securitrons at Fortification Hill. He could be dead now for all she knew.

"I have to admit, it's hard to believe," Joshua said quietly, his expression turned somber and distant. Joan pressed on.

"It was hard, of course," she said, "They put up a hell of a fight."

"I'd be more surprised if they didn't," he replied lightly.

She regaled him with the story of the second battle for Hoover Dam, growing steadily more animated as she explained the highlights of the battle: the organized push into the Dam itself, Legionaries falling around her, the majestic sight of the Boomer's plane dipping low and dropping bombs. The thrill of taking out Centurions with her sniper rifle, the veritable hail of gunfire raining from every direction. A terrifying physical confrontation with a Legionary and how she'd managed to thwart him with only her knife. The final heroic break into the Legate's Camp and Lanius's final words.

"It was exhilarating," she reminisced fondly, propping her chin in one hand. Joshua had been watching her silently for some time. "I told him he had a nice mask—and how nice it would look hanging on my wall," Joan continued, smug. Indeed it hung there now, all the way back at the Lucky 38, displayed prominently in the Presidential Suite as her trophy, splattered with Lanius's dried and blackened blood.

"It gets better," she rushed on, spirited again. "After all that, General Oliver, Lee Oliver?" She didn't wait for Joshua to respond. "He had to gall to show up and try to take credit for everything I had done. Everything I had done for the Mojave, all the work that _I_ put in. He wanted the Dam." She paused, her smile turning vindictive. "He told me I should be hanged for expelling the NCR. Can you believe that? I was willing to let them have their percentage of power output from the Dam, to continue to let their soldiers furlough on the Strip, and he told me he would see me hanged." She stared past Joshua, through the wall and into the day the Dam was seized. In her mind's eye she saw Oliver's corpse, broken and splattered at the base of Hoover Dam, Yes Man waving cheerfully down at her.

"I had to make an example out of him." For the first time in a long while Joshua sat forward and studied her closely, his blackened hands laced in front of him. "I had to show the NCR that I was a force to be reckoned with. I had him thrown from the top of Hoover Dam."

Joshua sat motionless.

"The NCR left after that. It's been a hit to the businesses on the Strip but," she shrugged. "I did what I had to do."

"I see."

Joan felt the unwelcome prickle of unease return. Joshua's pale blue eyes seemed to stare straight through her; she looked away. "I thought you should know what's been going on."

"I can only hope Arizona and the tribes don't suffer as the Legion falls apart around them," he said after a lengthy pause.

"You think they will fall apart?" she asked. Joshua turned pensive again.

"I do," he said. "The Legion falls with Caesar. Caesar…" He drifted off. "I still have a hard time wrapping my mind around it. After everything that happened, after all that we did together, after all that he did to me…" Joan studied him closely as it was now his turn to look through her into his own past; his eyes were distant and unreadable to her. Joan's stomach tightened and she clasped her hands together. A part of her longed to reach out to him. She thought of the conversation they had had before she left Zion; she saw the same vulnerability in him now as she did then, when he had explained the extent and nature of what Caesar had done to him, and the pain he still suffered to this day because of it. The tension in her stomach twisted as the terrible mental image came unbidden into her mind: Joshua falling, burning, into that dark chasm.

"What does it feel like to be burned?"

Joshua blinked, focusing on her again as if he were seeing her for the first time. His expression immediately darkened and something behind his eyes shifted. Mortification flooded over her and she turned a vivid shade of red.

"I'm—oh God I'm sorry, that was too forward," she stammered, drawing back sharply as she realized she had been leaning toward him. "I didn't mean to overstep—"

Her voice died in her throat as Joshua Graham seized her hand. His grip was tight and with no concern for her comfort, red fingertips digging in deeply enough to turn the dimpled flesh around them white. She seemed to step outside of herself and watch as a ghostly third party as he trapped her hand in the air before roughly dragging the oil lamp between them. Distantly she felt her fingertips turn icy and her breath stall as he pulled the chimney from the base, the thick cotton wick exposed. The flame danced in the cool air. He jerked her hand forward with enough force that the rest of her came too, half standing awkwardly as the edge of the table dug into the tops of her thighs. Her heart began to pound, not faster but much, much harder and her vision seemed to pulse with it. He plunged her forefinger into the flame.

Initially she felt nothing. The flames licked around her finger with no more discomfort than if she had drawn her hand under warm running water. Joshua stared into the fire with an intensity she had only witnessed once before, at the Three Mary's.

Then sensation returned and with a cruel jolt she felt as one with her body again. The flesh of her forefinger began to sizzle and her brow pricked with sweat as a geyser of pain erupted in her finger. She inhaled sharply and her arm jerked. Joshua held onto her steadfastly, crushing her small hand in his, red on white. Her back arched and she braced her free hand against the table, gritting her teeth as her heartbeat accelerated from a steady pounding to a galloping race inside her chest. The flesh of her forefinger began to bubble and turn white as a sickeningly sweet odor filled the air around them. She swallowed hard, feeling as though she couldn't draw enough oxygen into her lungs, suffocating in the stench. Her stomach roiled. The pain did not increase linearly, instead lunging deeper and harder into her, as if not only her finger were being seared but the rest of her hand, her arm, her entire body, burning bright in the darkness. She couldn't stop herself from whimpering in pain as she finally struggled against him, trying to wrench her hand away from his. He seemed utterly unfazed as he restrained her with cruel tranquility, breathing steadily as though he were doing nothing more stimulating than scouring the filth from one of his guns.

Sweat poured down Joan's brow and into her eyes, stinging them. She gasped raggedly in thin shrieks, feeling lightheaded. The flesh of her finger had turned from white to red and was charring black around the edges. She bore down hard enough on the table that her shoulder popped painfully and finally she cried out, humiliated by the break in her voice.

" _Please_!"

Joshua Graham's eyes flicked upward for the first time, meeting hers. Her eyes were wet, terrified and ringed red behind her glasses. His eyes dug into hers as he continued holding her finger in the flame for another eternal moment before loosening his grip just enough to quickly envelop her hand with his, his long fingers pressed around hers. He closed their hands together in a fist, trapping the flames between Joan's fingers and palm, starving the fire of oxygen and extinguishing it. Darkness fell in the cave around them and he finally released her.

Joan crashed backward, nearly falling off the ledge that Joshua's table perched on, immediately jerking her hand to her chest as she shuddered and gasped. Joshua seemed to stare through her, his gaze cold and impassive. Joan scrambled off the ledge and rushed to the mouth of the cavern, pausing to glance back at him. He was still sitting and staring forward, inanimate as a statue and her feet pounded the rough stone as she ran down the corridor of the cave, trying not to stumble and fall.

She slowed down to a fast walk as she reached the entrance of the Angel Cave. The cove was lit by moonlight now, the fire in the center of the camp reduced to dim coals. Several of the Dead Horses were finally winding down, their pushups sluggish, most of them wholly retired to their lean-tos. The few that were still active stared at her and they seemed unrecognizable to Joan. She wished Follows-Chalk hadn't left.

She made her way past the Dead Horses to the furthest edge of the cove, where the canyon wall met the slowly lapping waters of the Eastern Virgin. Joan fell to her knees and plunged her hand into the cold water, gasping with the fragment of relief that it brought her finger. It turned her stomach to look at it; glistening and swollen, the skin was peeled back and charred around the edges, gaping and deep meaty red in the center. Like a burst dam, fluid rushed from the wound. Her shoulders shook and her breath hitched in short painful gasps as she settled back against the wall, tossing her hat off and clawing into her jacket with her uninjured hand. Clumsily she withdrew a roll of gauze and a small metal case. She swallowed hard as she unwound the bandages as steadily as she could manage with one hand. Within the metal case was what she truly wanted: several gleaming needles lined up and filled with Med-X. She knew she wouldn't be able to properly apply the bandaging to her finger if she was high, and fear of dirt and infection outweighed her desire for relief. She worked quickly, wrapping the gauze as tightly as she could withstand around the entirety of her finger. It was sloppy, but at least it was done.

The pressure seemed to alleviate the pain somewhat, but she was eager for what would truly help. She hastily shoved the sleeves of her left arm up, not caring how much her suit was wrinkling. A series of familiar dots peppered the inside of her forearm. She popped the metal case open and withdrew the fullest needle, sighing with comfort as the tip of the needle delved into the cleft of her arm and she depressed the plunger slowly, taking in every last drop the needle had to give.

Within minutes all the aches and pains faded away: the tension in her neck, her throbbing shoulder, her stiff legs, and most importantly her finger. The digit was still uncomfortable, but it was significantly better than before. She leaned her head back against the canyon wall, closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.


	2. Hole In Your Heart

Chapter 2: Hole In Your Heart

 _I felt the fire burning before I saw the smoke_

Sunlight stabbed through Joan's tinted glasses into her crusted and parched eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut again, embracing the reddish darkness behind her eyelids. She dozed.

A while later she cracked her dry eyes open once more. The sun was higher in the sky now, and she shoved her desperado hat back onto her head. Sluggishly she lifted her left arm, pulling her Pipboy up nearly to her nose to look at the time. It was just past noon. She let her arm fall to the ground before promptly leaning over and expelling the limited contents of her stomach onto the sand beside her, heaving and retching. It came in a few violent bursts, leaving her feeling shriveled and stringy when it was finally over. She groaned as she swiped at the viscous strands of saliva around her mouth with the back of her hand. Dizziness passed over her in a few erratic waves before she finally drew a flask of water from inside her jacket, desperate to wash the chalky grit from her teeth. She devoted a few minutes to cleaning herself up as best as she could, trying not to look at the yellow patch of vomit next to her as she hastily swept sand over it. She winced as her finger connected with the ground.

A pair of snakeskin shoes appeared before her, startling her. Reflexively she pressed into the canyon wall as her eyes traveled upward; Joshua Graham was looking down at her, his eyebrows tilted up.

"I'm surprised you're still with us."

"I only just got here," she replied hoarsely. Her throat felt as though she'd swallowed shards of glass. Joshua regarded her for a moment before stepping closer and dropping into a squat, offering his hand out to her.

"May I see your hand?" he asked. Joan swallowed.

"It's fine," she said stiffly. His brows knitted together and his expression sharpened.

"Give me your hand." Joan looked away from him, out over the water of the cove, her lips pressed into a thin line. She could sense his eyes on her in expectation, and could all but feel mounting annoyance rolling off of him. She relented and held out her injured hand.

He grasped her hand, gently this time. Joan tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach as he appraised it, flipping it over and inspecting her fingers. She continued to stare out, looking anywhere but at him.

"You did an alright job bandaging it," he said. "Would you like me to clean it for you?" Joan despised the pink flush creeping up her neck and hesitated. He pressed on.

"You should let me show you how to clean it properly. You don't want it to become infected," he said. Joan pursed her lips once again. He was right. She nodded silently and he drew himself up to his feet again, lifting her up with him. Her legs were shaky and stiff after being awkwardly thrust out all night. The Med-X had worn off hours ago; her finger pulsed with pain to the rhythm of her heartbeat beneath the tight bandages. He led her a few yards down the bank before sitting cross-legged on the sand and beckoning her to join him. She smoothed out her skirt before taking her place at his side. He held out his hand expectantly—obediently, she placed her hand in his.

Joan winced and cursed beneath her breath as Joshua unwrapped the knot of bandages as carefully as he could. Her free hand was knotted into a fist, her fingernails scraping the meat of her palm as fresh sweat dotted her brow. After a moment her finger was released and she ground her teeth hard enough that her jaw throbbed all the way up the sides of her face and deep into her temples. Her finger felt as though the fire had been lit anew in the fresh air of the valley. She could barely stand to look at it; it had more than doubled in size, an enormous charred bubble of flesh seeping thin watery fluid. The edges of the wound looked like scorched parchment paper. Joshua gave her a sympathetic look before extending her arm in front of him.

"Wait," she choked out, her finger inches away from the cool water. She cast her eyes back to where she had passed out. Gleaming in the sun was her slim metal case, carelessly tossed to the ground the night before. "I have Med-X. Let me get that really quick, then you can start."

Joshua looked over his shoulder at the case before turning back to her. His brows creased together with disapproval.

"You don't need that," he admonished her, still suspending her hand in the air over the water. Joan tried to pull away from him, but he held her fast. "If you can't handle a small burn like this, how can you expect to deal with anything else the world will throw at you? You'll be fine." He attempted to lower her hand into the water but Joan wrenched her arm, managing to just keep it in place. Indignant fury ignited within her and she lowered her chin with determination, glaring hard at him.

" _Excuse me_?" Her tone was low and sharp. "You're trying to tell me what _I_ can't handle? I've been shot in the head, I've been to the Divide, _I_ took Hoover _fucking_ Dam, who are you to tell me what I can't goddamn handle?" Joshua's eyebrows shot up at this outburst before settling into an expression as resolute as her own. Their eyes clashed, blue on black, for several long moments. The pain in her finger acted as a conduit to the red hot outrage that surged within her that he would dare to be so presumptuous about what she was capable of. Neither budged.

A warm breeze swept through the Eastern Virgin, causing shallow ripples to spread out across the serene waters of the cove. It was strong enough that even the sand on the banks kicked up and danced in the air around the two as they sat locked in a battle of wills. A few granules of sand stuck to her finger.

Joan howled in agony, the grains of sand feeling like rusty razor blades skewering the pulpy seared meat of the burn. She folded and bent double, her stomach clenching painfully as she struggled to keep herself from bursting apart at the seams.

Joshua Graham thrust her hand into the water.

Supporting herself on her free hand, Joan let him take her injured hand in both of his, the water dulling the raw edge off the worst of the stinging and burning. The burst of pain led to a deflated feeling of fatigue and she was too exhausted to try to argue or fight with him further. He set to work not only on her finger but her entire hand, massaging the meat of her palm between his own scarred fingertips. He was delicate around the wound, letting the pads of his fingers skate as gently over the bubble of flesh as he could manage. He gently cleaned between each finger, working deep into the webbing and Joan felt the fatigue melt away into something else. She turned her face away from him, feeling as though a nest of cazadors had come alive inside of her, buzzing and erratic.

After a few minutes he pulled her hand from the creek, inspecting his work as water dripped from her hand into his lap. He withdrew a small knife and a roll of gauze from one of his vest pockets and lanced the bubble of flesh that threatened to consume her finger, holding her hand over the sand as plasma flooded out, the two of them watching in silence as it slowly deflated. Finally he began to carefully wrap the finger in clean bandages, loosely enveloping it from base to tip. Joan swallowed.

"We're going to need to clean this, probably about twice a day. I want to keep an eye on it for the next week or so," he stated matter-of-factly, finally releasing her hand. Joan faltered.

"I need to get back to Vegas," she said. Joshua looked at her before turning his face away. He cleared his throat.

"I don't think that would be wise. You're not going to be able to defend yourself on your journey back to the Mojave. That's your trigger finger," he said with a begrudging sense of finality. Joan stared down at the thick white bandages; the importance of which finger had been burned had not occurred to her before this moment. She instinctively moved to fidget with her tie and winced as renewed pain shot through her finger. He was right. Again.

"Of course," she said stiffly, trying to retain control of the situation. They sat facing each other as an uncomfortable silence passed between them.

Behind them, a group of Dead Horses began to mill around the fire and the picnic tables dotting the camp, speaking cheerfully in their strange tongue. Joshua perked up; Joan couldn't understand a word they were saying.

"You look famished," he said, hefting himself to his feet. He extended a hand to her and helped her up as well. Joan gladly welcomed the distraction.

"Yes, absolutely," she agreed quickly. She matched his brisk pace to the fire as the Dead Horses—and a number of the Sorrows, she now noted—gathered around the tables, taking seats and chattering to each other. Joan could manage well enough speaking one-on-one with the tribals, but the wild flurry of chatter surrounding her sounded like gnats buzzing in her ears. Joshua responded to them easily, the faint lines around his eyes crinkling as he spoke. Joan feigned a sudden interest in her Pipboy.

"Tanaashgiizh!" A few Sorrows emerged from the Angel Cave, laden with large wooden trays stacked with food and water. Bowls of what looked to be a thick muddy colored porridge were placed before her and Joshua first, then for the rest of the tribals. Joan watched the Sorrows as they scuttled back into the cave. Joshua lowered his head and began speaking in English again, leading the tribals around them in the Lord's Prayer; Joan bowed her head and closed her eyes in genuflection. As soon as he was done speaking the Dead Horses dug into their food with zeal.

"Have you ever had this?" Joshua spoke quietly to Joan. She had opened her eyes again, watching the entrance to the cave. Sorrows flitted in and out bearing bottles of water and extra helpings. Joan hadn't touched her food yet. "It's made from blue corn."

"They're all women," she said. Joshua's eyes followed hers, immediately grasping her insinuation.

"The Dead Horses and I have been scrubbing the valley clean," he explained, "Finding the last traces of the White Legs and dealing with them. The women of the Sorrows have taken on the more mundane roles of the camp—cooking, cleaning, et cetera." Joan's eyes didn't move from the cave entrance.

"They seemed perfectly capable to me when I was here a couple months ago," she said stiffly. Joshua sighed, his voice tinged with irritation.

"They're capable at hunting wild animals, not men. This is what's safest for them." He turned to look at her. Joan's eyes darted between his and the cave.

"I know what you're thinking," he said evenly. "And I can even understand why. But I would hope you knew me better than that, after everything I've shared with you." Joan felt the familiar flush creeping up her neck as she finally twisted to meet him. She studied his face and he let her, sitting patiently as his own food went ignored. Though pale, there was no hint of the icy hardness in his eyes that had been there the night before. Just Joshua. She bit the inside of her lip and ignored the burning in her finger. She finally turned to her own bowl of porridge and began to eat. Joshua followed suit, pausing only to part the bandages over his mouth just enough so that food could pass through. Joan snuck a few glances at him. She caught a glimpse of his darkened lips before forcing herself to not be impolite and focus on her own meal.

The rest of the meal passed quietly. Joan ate her porridge slowly—the men around her wolfed theirs down with just enough restraint to remain courteous. She was dragging a rough spoon across the bottom of her bowl when she glanced up at the cave entrance and saw a familiar face.

"Joan!" Waking Cloud noticed her at the same time and made her way over, waving her arms. Joshua stepped away from the table, excusing himself to go and oversee the Dead Horses. Joan pushed away the remainder of her food and stood to greet the other woman, thrusting out her hand; Waking Cloud stared quizzically at it for a moment before sweeping Joan into an enormous bear hug, squeezing her tightly. Joan was taken aback before awkwardly patting the taller woman on her bare shoulder, quietly hissing at the pain it elicited in her forefinger.

"I'm surprised to see you here," Joan said. "I thought you would have gone through the Grand Staircase with Daniel and the other Sorrows." Waking Cloud pulled away, her smile dimming.

"I will go nowhere with Daniel. He is a liar," she spoke bitterly. "Do you know what he did? He knew my husband was dead, and he did and said nothing. I worried for my husband for weeks, and he _knew_. He was a coward." She crossed her arms, her expression stony. Joan quickly averted her gaze—Waking Cloud seemed to be unaware of her own role in Daniel's concealment.

"I'm sure he just wanted you to remain focused," she said, fiddling with one of the loose ends of the bandages wrapped around her finger.

"Pah! Of course I would have remained focused! My children were out there waiting for me. I was midwife to the Sorrows, did he think I was not used to seeing the terrible, the sadness? It was my choice to grieve and remain strong and he took that from me." Resentment and sadness commingled on Waking Cloud's face. Joan decided not to push her.

"So, your children?"

"They are here with me now, where they belong," she replied, brightening considerably. "I am proud of them. They have been very brave, for everything that has happened. We are much better off here with Joshua Graham and the Dead Horses. My sons and my daughter are safe." She looked mistily out over the waters of the cove. Some of the tension that had been winding up within Joan since lunch melted away.

"That's good, I'm glad someone's watching over you." She smiled up at Waking Cloud.

"I am always being watched over," Waking Cloud replied proudly, "but it is nice to have a—how do you say it—a tangible friend to look out for us. Joshua Graham is a good man." She paused, eyeing Joan. "And you are a good woman to help him. We could not have remained in Zion if it were not for the two of you. I thank you." Joan flushed, casting her eyes down with a small smile.

"I only did what was right."

The afternoon passed idly for Joan. She had offered to help out around the camp, to make herself useful in some way, but Joshua had denied her, pointing out that not only was she a guest but that she needed to make sure her finger remained clear of any further damage. Joan supposed it was only practical. She was never any good at the banality of domestic chores anyway—she had no idea how to cook anything that wasn't charred black and borderline inedible. Joshua busied himself leading the Dead Horses, overseeing them as they ran around the cove exercising. She was settled neatly by the large fire dominating the center of the camp and watched him over the pages of her bible with curiosity.

He was stern, but she didn't see anything untoward. He engaged in the exercises himself and made the work look easy: hoisting himself up on a branch until his bandaged chin cleared it, performing pushups and leading the men in deep lunges, their legs extended with calculation. She wondered how on earth he had remained so flexible after Caesar had him burned; her own finger had curled painfully in on itself like a pillbug. She attempted to stretch it out before cursing loudly enough that some of the Dead Horses glanced her way.

Her case of Med-X remained by the water's edge where it had been sadly abandoned the night before. She stared at it across the sand, the hot air wavering around it like a mirage in the desert, as beckoning as an oasis. Joshua Graham passed in front of her vision.

"I'm glad to see you're enjoying my gift." Joan startled, her attention snapping back from the thin metal case. Joshua sounded genuinely pleased. She bookmarked her spot before gently pressing the worn pages closed.

"Of course. I like it. It… gives me hope," she said, tilting her head back to look up at his face. There was a smile around his eyes.

"I thought you might see it the way I do," he said, before his attention was diverted by one of the men calling out to him. Joan buried her nose in her bible again as he left; she hoped the shade from her hat concealed the pink in her cheeks.

Afternoon stretched to nightfall and the camp seemed to settle earlier this evening than it had the night before. The tone was light as Dead Horses and Sorrows mingled around the fire chatting with each other over bottles of water. Joshua had retreated into the Angel Cave for a while. Joan had not followed him.

Waking Cloud emerged from the group and settled next to Joan by the waters of the cove. Joan was feeling very good now—as soon as Joshua had entered the cave she had all but dashed over to her case of Med-X, injecting an amount that would have made Arcade's eyebrows jump to his hairline. She leaned back, propped up on her good hand, her bare feet lazily waving back and forth in the shallow water.

"I hope this visit has been better than your last," Waking Cloud said. "Zion is a place of deep beauty; you should embrace it this time." Joan rolled her shoulders and loosened her tie between the unbuttoned panels of her suit jacket. She wasn't sure how to respond and she rather wished Waking Cloud would leave her to her high in peace.

"Yeah," she said distractedly. Waking Cloud watched her.

"Are you alright?" Joan stiffened and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Yes. I'm fine. I'm _embracing beauty_." She immediately felt a stab of remorse. She turned to look at Waking Cloud, who was watching her with concern, and schooled her tone into something friendlier.

"Seriously. I'm okay. I'm just relaxing. It was… a long journey here. I'm still recovering," she said. Waking Cloud's eyes drifted to Joan's finger, the dingy bandages washed pale in the moonlight.

"Did you hurt yourself on your journey? I'm not just a midwife, Danie— _I_ know much of other medicines as well," she corrected herself. "I can take a look at that." Joan withdrew her hand protectively into her lap.

"It's fine," she said too quickly. "It's just a small thing. It's not a big deal." She clamped her mouth shut against any further rambling. Waking Cloud looked unconvinced. Joan wished with greater fervency that she would just go back to the other tribals and leave her alone. She was all too happy when heeled footsteps came padding softly up behind them a moment later. She looked over her shoulder—as she had expected, worn snakeskin shoes.

"We should clean your wound again, Joan," Joshua said. Waking Cloud raised her brows, hopping lightly up to her feet to give him space. She looked at Joan knowingly.

"It is good you've got someone to look over you," she echoed with a small smile before taking her leave, heading back to the group around the fire. The wave of relief that washed over Joan quickly evaporated as Joshua knelt to take her place. She inhaled steadily, thanking God that she had enough Med-X in her to put a grown man to sleep.

"Give me your hand," Joshua demanded, drawing a cloth out of his pocket and spreading it neatly on the sand by the water. On the cloth he laid out a roll of gauze and his pocketknife. Joan didn't want to move her hand, looking down at it on her lap. In her high it reminded her of a small sad animal, one that should be protected. Her lower lip jutted out.

"I'm not going to ask you again," he said sharply. She jerked her head up to look at him. Disapproval was etched deeply into the grooves around his eyes, his dark brows forming a severe line. "You probably can't even do it yourself with all the chems in your system."

A deep blush bloomed from Joan's neck and cheeks, rising all the way to the tips of her ears and she turned her face away from him.

"How did you—"

"I know everything that goes on in this valley."

"You didn't see me coming last night," she snapped back. For a terrible moment Joshua looked thunderous and she flinched away from him.

"You've already tested my patience once this evening." His tone was darkly polite. "Do not abuse my generosity. You are a guest here. I have very few rules for guests in Zion, but this is one of them. Do not let me catch you injecting that poison again." Resentment burst to life within Joan that he would speak to her like a child, like an inferior.

"Do you burn your other guests?"

She immediately scrambled away from him, seeing real anger in his eyes for the first time. She winced as she sprang off her fingertips to stand, swaying slightly with the morphine pulsing through her veins. Joshua Graham stared up at her before drawing himself up slowly to his feet and she was acutely aware of the difference in height between them. He seemed to swell even larger as he looked down on her, his eyes burning. Water lapped at her feet as he stood as impenetrable as a wall in front of her, the rest of the camp behind him.

"That was uncalled for," she said quickly. She held out her hand. Joshua looked down at it. His expression dulled and he seemed to catch himself.

"Let's get to work."

The two sat again, the situation defused. He was not as gentle as he had been in the morning; he unwound her bandages with stark efficiency, ignoring her gritted teeth and low cursing as he dunked her hand in the water without ceremony, washing her fingers as if he were scraping a pan clean. Within moments he had withdrawn it, briskly patting her hand dry before lancing the mangled bubble of flesh that consumed her forefinger. As before they watched it drain in silence. Then he set about wrapping it, working carefully now, making sure not to wrap it too tightly. As soon as he was finished he stood.

"It's late and I'm tired. Good night." He didn't wait for a response before striding away from her, cutting through the lingering Dead Horses to his lean-to. She watched as he knelt and laid down in it, curling with his back to the campfire. The Dead Horses grew silent and followed his lead, heading to their own furs. Joan numbly sat by the water as the last traces of the high wore off of her. The pain relief remained—fortunately— and her finger merely whispered pain rather than screamed it.

After a while she finally stood up, fetching her sleeping bag from the pack she'd left near the edge of the camp the previous evening. She hesitated, staring at the spot she had made her own during her first visit. Close to the fire in that frigid desert night; unintentionally mere feet away from Joshua's lean-to. Her jaw set with conviction. She made her way over to her regular spot and spread out her bag, determined to do what she had always done, that nothing had changed. She quickly undressed down to the grey shorts and shirt she wore as undergarments, glad to be out of her suit for the first time in a few days and tucked herself into her bag, burrowing deep into the warmth in the cool night air.


	3. I Walk the Line

Chapter 3: I Walk the Line

 _You've got a way to keep me on your side, you give me cause for love that I can't hide, for you I'd even try to turn the tide_

The next two days were uneventful. Joshua gave Joan a wide berth, focusing on his work with the Dead Horses and male Sorrows, leading them in various exercises throughout the morning and evening, and taking shelter in the Angel Cave during the hottest part of the day when the sun was at its peak in the sky. Joan had no idea what he was up to while he was in there. The female Sorrows continued their domestic duties around the camp, feeding and looking after the men. Rarely Joan would spy the younger members of the tribes passing in and out of the Eastern Virgin with their parents. Waking Cloud had shown off her three children to Joan, beaming with maternal pride. Joan was inexperienced with children during the best of times and awkwardly waved at them as they babbled at her in their simplistic language. Waking Cloud had offered to let Joan hold her youngest, her daughter, which she had promptly refused, holding up her bandaged hand as an excuse.

Joan kept to herself, burying her nose in her bible and trying to ignore the ever present throbbing and burning in her forefinger, which unfortunately did not seem to be decreasing, even with her surreptitious use of Med-X. Despite virtually ignoring her the rest of the time, Joshua still meticulously cleaned her wounded finger for her twice a day as he had stated they would need to do. He was gentle once again, even if he worked in total silence.

On the third day Joan grew restless, prowling around the increasingly claustrophobic cove. She watched Sorrows traveling in and out of the camp with envy as she wore a line down the water's edge, back and forth, back and forth. This did not go unnoticed by Joshua Graham.

"Would you like to come with me?" She stopped and looked up at him. It was just past midday; Joshua was standing before her with a pack slung over his shoulder.

"Yes," she said automatically. She didn't even care where he was going. The cazadors buzzed inside her once again.

"I'm heading to the Sorrow's camp. Daniel left a few things," he explained. "I wouldn't mind the company, if you were up for it." The rage she saw in him the other day was completely gone, as though it had never been there at all. She wondered if he had seemed exaggerated in her high, better resembling the wrathful spirit on the canyon walls than the placid man who stood in front of her.

"I don't think I've ever sat still for so long in my life," she said. "I'd love that."

The two set out immediately, winding their way down the Eastern Virgin. Joan only hesitated a moment before hiking up her skirt to pass through the deepest parts of the creek, as she had always done. Joshua politely sped up to walk in front of her, and she was glad he couldn't see her face.

"I always thought that suit was impractical," Joshua said over his shoulder as they exited the creek, stepping up onto the small dock that led to the road ahead. He paused to wring out the legs of his jeans before shaking the water off his shoes like a dog would shake out its fur. Joan narrowed her eyes at him.

"Not like that," he said lightly. "It must be nice to just pull your clothes out of the way." He mimicked her holding her skirt up. Joan saw what he meant and chuckled, letting her skirt fall back to her knees as she stepped up onto the dock after him.

"A lot of people have said that I dress unusually," she said with a small measure of pride before curiosity sparked within her. She hesitated.

"Can I ask you something personal?" He looked down at her once again, his friendly eyes turning wary.

"What would you like to know?"

"I've never seen anyone wearing anything like you wear either. Where did you get it?" she asked. Joshua relaxed, looking down at his own attire.

"As I told you, I'm originally from Ogden. Shortly after I began traveling as a missionary I found this vest in the ruins of Salt Lake City. I took it as a sign from God that I was on the right path—it's been invaluable to me," he answered her lightly, the warmth returning to his face. Joan looked over his shoulder; the angry idol glared down on them, eyes blazed red and bloody.

"Have you always worn it?" The layers of her question weren't missed by him. He twisted to follow her gaze up the canyon walls.

"Yes."

Joan didn't press him further as they walked up the road leading to the center of the park.

The afternoon passed pleasantly and Joan was reminded of her time traveling with Follows-Chalk as Joshua commented on their surroundings. She was surprised at his wealth of knowledge of the prewar world as he explained the various buildings and sights to her, even commenting on the burned out and rusted vehicles that dotted the camp grounds and dusty roads.

"I envy those people," she said as they passed yet another husk of a car. "Driving looked fantastic. It must have been really freeing to just… go. No preparation. Just pick up your keys and take off, whenever you want, to wherever you want. You'd only ever have to stop for fuel."

"I see what you mean. Even now I can appreciate the remains of a fine piece of machinery," he agreed, patting a truck with his scarred hand as though it were a brahmin. Her mind wandered to what it would have been like if they had lived in that era, if they ever even would have met. What the world would have shaped them into during that peaceful time. She blushed as an image from a prewar magazine slid uninvited into her mind with their faces superimposed over the smiling caricatures: Joshua Graham sitting in an impeccable suit and tie at a sparkling clean kitchen table that was drenched with morning sunlight, a newspaper hovering over his undamaged face, one slim dress shoe perched on his knee as he sipped—pinkie out—from a ceramic mug. Herself with her hair swept up into victory rolls, wearing a floral housedress and pearls, heels clacking across a checkered kitchen floor as she served him toast and eggs, smiling at him with ruby red lips. She grimaced and shoved the repugnant scene from her mind.

"Ever thought of trying to fix one up?" she asked. Joshua laughed.

"I know my way around a firearm. Prewar vehicles are a little beyond me, although I'm flattered you think I could," he said as they continued their journey across the valley.

Before long they reached the Sorrows camp. Joan didn't recall it ever bustling with activity but it looked haunted and abandoned now. Furs spilled out of the empty lean-tos, and a few cans and bottles were scattered over the ground near some deserted earthen cookware.

"I thought some of the Sorrows were still here," she commented as they wound their way through the creek that pierced the heart of the camp.

"They are, but they mostly live and work in the Dead Horse's camp now. I believe Waking Cloud returns here each evening with her children though, among a few others," he replied. Joan idled as Joshua made his way around the camp, picking up a few items that Daniel had left in his hasty exit; some books, medicines, a few articles of clothing. Joshua sighed.

"I tried to convince him to stay," he said. Joan watched his broad shoulders drop as he packed away the remnants into the pack he'd brought along.

"He was determined though. Most of the Sorrows left with him. I pray for their safety in the wilderness. At least I can return his belongings to him if he ever comes back."

"I'm sorry," she said, unsure of what else to say.

"It was his choice. He's capable, so I at least know the Sorrows are in good hands." He looked up at the darkening sky as he began to wrap up. "We should head back to the camp." Joan agreed and they turned around to retrace their steps through the valley.

They had been traveling for some time when something on the horizon caught Joan's attention. Her previous trip to Zion had been fairly rushed and there were large swaths of the valley she had never seen before. In the distance was an enormous red arch linking two towering columns of rock. Curiosity sparked within her and she paused to reach up and tap Joshua's shoulder before extending her bandaged finger in the direction of the natural monument.

"Let's go look at that," she said. He shifted his eyes to the arch before looking back at her, and then at the rock formation again.

"The Red Gate?" he said.

"Is that what it's called? I want to go see it up close. There's nothing like that in the Mojave," she said, already striding past him. He caught up to her in a few easy steps. He seemed amused by her curiosity.

"We passed through it the night we dealt with the White Legs. You don't remember it?"

"It was late and I was a little preoccupied," she said acerbically. The sky above them continued to darken as they neared the arch, fine droplets of rain dotting the earth around them, turning the rocks freckled. There was nothing around the arch except a few small scorpions that skittered away into some nearby boulders as soon as they stepped close. A ridge penetrated the arch, giving way to a cliff that overlooked the sweeping Virgin River. The rainfall brought out the lush scents of sage and poppies in the valley, feeling abundant and alive.

Joan looked around, feeling as though she were searching for something, although she didn't know what. Joshua hung back and watched her. After a few minutes Joan ascended the ridge that pierced the arch and looked back at him, on the verge of telling him they should move on when she spotted what looked like a pale stick protruding from between a cluster of rocks. She backtracked to inspect it.

Wedged between the dark wet rocks was a skeleton, one that looked much older than the others she had seen in the valley. Beside it lay a rusted rifle, a corked bottle of scotch, and a military surplus bag.

"Oh my God."

Joshua watched with quiet interest as she tore open the bag, digging within it with such fervor that some of the contents spilled out onto the wet earth. Joan lit up like a candle a moment later as she pulled out what looked to be an old diary, its cover faded and battered with age. She scoured the pages for a few minutes.

"It's him," she said, her fingers pressed loosely over her lips as she read.

"Who is it?"

Joan ignored him as she quickly thumbed the final pages of the journal. She couldn't believe what she was reading.

"Randall Clark," she spoke reverently, more to herself than to Joshua. He arched an eyebrow at her. Joan had discovered several of his journal entries during her previous trip to Zion, but she had never learned what happened to the man himself. What had finally become of him. Joan breathed deeply, feeling something unusual overcoming her. She stepped back from the cache, the journal limp in her hands.

"It's him. The Father in the Cave," she said, staring at the skeleton. Joshua pricked with recognition.

"That myth the Sorrows believe in?" he asked. Joan shook her head.

"He's not a myth. I've been in those caves. He lived here in Zion, just after the war. He…" she trailed off, feeling strangely choked up. "He looked after them. I have all his journals scanned into my Pipboy. He cared about them." She drifted away from the remains and back to the ledge that looked over the river cutting through Zion. The rain fell around her as the sun started to set, turning the rainfall into diamond-like slivers in the air.

In her mind's eye she saw not Zion, but New Vegas, her glittering oasis in the Mojave. She saw within it the people who lived there, who shared her short life and experiences, the trials and tribulations she had endured, and that they had overcome together. She thought of Helios One, Arcade standing beside her as she grit her teeth and chose where to direct the power of the sun, finally deciding that she didn't want to be like House; she didn't want to hoard her goods and wealth, she wanted equality in the desert, and that the outer edges of the Mojave deserved the stability and security of electricity just as much as the residents of Vegas did. She had made a similar decision at Hoover Dam when Yes Man had presented the option of destroying the Dam to her. It would have been practical to destroy it, to ensure no one, not even the NCR, would ever have any reason to come near her precious sanctuary again, but still she couldn't. Vegas deserved better.

She loved Vegas and everyone in it. She swallowed, feeling a well of alien emotion rising within her like floodwaters, threatening to pull her under. Everything before had seemed like a game to her, she reflected. It had been fun to help the NCR at Camp Forlorn Hope and McCarran. Running a few errands for House had also been enjoyable, at least until she determined that he was too greedy and unfit to lead Vegas. In a strange way, there had also been a thrill during the one night she spent at Caesar's camp, across the Colorado. Frightening and disturbing for sure, but an undeniable rush of excitement. But now the gravity of everything weighed on her, that she was distant enough to see it all. Looking back, it was like watching a film on holotape, she could see all the events that led up to this moment and watched the puzzle pieces slide together, the events of her life forming her like a sculptor would meld clay in his hands. She didn't remember anything of her former life, before Benny had shot her in the head, and at this point she didn't care to. She was who she was, what the Mojave had formed her into.

She swept off her desperado hat and tilted her head back, letting the rain wash over her as she allowed everything to crash around inside her, the way water crashed through Hoover Dam. She owed everything to the people in the Mojave, for better or worse.

 _The fire that had kept me alive was love. Their love. God's love. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe to them, but I must try._

She opened her eyes.

She wanted to be like Randall Clark. For Vegas to always have her strength and support, to be able to protect them and watch over them, to shape the Mojave as it had shaped her. It was a burden she was glad to carry for them. Abruptly she felt desperately homesick and she swallowed against the painful lump in her throat. She missed them all so much, and for the first time understood the way that Waking Cloud looked at her children: with pride, joy, and unconditional love. She flooded with warmth all the way down to her fingertips and she inhaled deeply. Wet sage, fresh water, the electric ozone of the rain coming down around her. And something else.

Her eyes lowered for a moment and she caught of a glimpse of white at the periphery of her vision. Joshua Graham was standing next to her, so close that their shoulders might have touched if she weren't so much shorter than him. The cazadors gently stirred to life inside of her. She looked over at him as he gazed out over the river, looking as lost in his own mind as she was in hers. She looked back over the water.

If she allowed herself to be honest, she wanted to be like Joshua too, though she would never admit that to anyone, least of all him. Love had saved him, as he had told her, and she hadn't really understood what he meant then. She understood it now though. She snuck another glance at him, her stomach feeling weightless, as though she had unexpectedly fallen from a ledge. Everything in her mind told her that she shouldn't feel this way; she could already see the looks of horror on Arcade and Cass's faces if she told them about him, could already hear their well intended objections.

Her breath caught in her throat as she thought of Boone. He would only ever see the Malpais Legate—not the man who stood beside her now. They could never see the real Joshua Graham, not the way she did.

Joshua turned his head and caught her eyes and she saw a mutual understanding there. He knew what it was like to lead people, and the terrible burden it brought. It was a harsh world that they lived in, one that did not allow for mercy nearly as often as she would prefer, and the difficult choices that that often led to. She cared deeply about Arcade, Cass and Boone, but they didn't understand what it was like. To be like the Father in the Cave.

The journal slipped from her fingers in her reverie and Joshua moved as quick as a snake, bending to catch it before it struck the wet ground. He straightened and handed it back to her.

"You won't tell them, will you?" Joan asked abruptly, turning to face him as she accepted the journal. "He wouldn't have wanted that. Randall Clark wanted the Sorrows to move on, to stand strong on their own. He didn't want them to ever see him this way." They both looked back at the lonely skeleton, still wedged in its grave between the rocks. Joshua nodded.

"I understand. Don't worry, this can stay between the two of us," he said. Joan felt that warm glow within her again; the cazadors darted around faster.

"Thank you," she paused. "And… thank you for staying with me. It's nice to have someone who understands." Joshua's eyebrows rose nearly imperceptibly.

"Of course," he said. He pulled away from her. "We should head out before the storm comes."


	4. Fire

Chapter 4: Fire

 _A thousand times I've fallen_

Night had nearly fallen by the time they returned to the Dead Horses camp, slogging their way through the Eastern Virgin. Joan had been without Med-X since the day before and she was sweating with the pain searing her finger, clutching her hand against her chest and trying to keep her breathing steady. She nearly fell into Joshua as he paused to wring out his pants legs, surprising him. The rain was coming down steadily and the Dead Horses were bunked up in their lean-tos to stay dry.

"What's wrong?" he asked sharply. She was staring down at her finger; her arm trembled and she bit her lip. He ushered her to the Angel Cave.

"Come inside. We need to look at that," he said, marching her through the entrance of the cave. She complied without resistance. The cave was empty despite the storm. Joan thought to ask him why they didn't sleep inside but he was already whisking her up to the chamber he had made his own, sitting her down at his work table once again. Joan didn't look at the oil lamp.

Joshua seated himself opposite her and seized her hand without asking.

"I'm sorry but this is going to hurt," he said, unwrapping the bandages without pausing. And hurt it did—Joan gripped the table with her free hand until her knuckles were as pale as Randall Clark's bones and ground her teeth together with enough force to make her vision pulse.

The burn looked bad. There was no plasma now, the bubble of flesh hanging deflated and dead. The skin around it looked like the pages of a burned book, curling, gnarled and blackened. She couldn't feel the center of the burn anymore; all the pain radiated from the outside of the bullseye. Joshua turned her hand in his, inspected it from every angle, his brows creeping closer and closer together with each passing second.

"What is it?" she bit out, her breath ragged. Joshua placed her hand on the table.

"It's not good," he confessed. "The flesh is dead. It needs to be cut away."

Joan's eyes flew wide open and she snatched her hand back to her chest.

"What does that mean?"

"It means what it sounds like. I'm going to need to cut away the dead flesh so that the living flesh can heal, so that it doesn't become infected," Joshua explained as he stood up and rummaged in one of the crates in the room. He fished out a small metal pot and lid. Joan sighed with relief and chuckled nervously.

"That's it? Dead skin doesn't feel anything. That's not so bad," she said. Joshua gave her a look of pity.

"I think you misunderstand what this is going to entail for you," he said. "The only way to know if I've cut away enough of the dead flesh is to take a tithing of living flesh with it. It's the only way."

Joan's fingertips turned to chips of ice, ice that cracked and spread up her arms and into her core. Her heartbeat sped up and she found it difficult to swallow.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm going to go boil some water," he said, walking briskly down out of the chamber and into the entrance of the cave below them. Joan sat and tried to stop her heart from jumping out of her chest. In Joshua's absence she felt a strange false and shaky calm cast a shadow over her—as though he had not merely stepped from the cave but into another dimension altogether, one where her finger was not burned, where she wasn't in excruciating pain, where he hadn't just told her that he'd have to cut off parts of her finger. Her eyes leapt to the mouth of the chamber and she slipped her hand inside her jacket for her slim metal case, popping it open. She still had a couple syringes of Med-X prepared for fast and easy use and was just drawing one out when Joshua re-entered the chamber.

"Fuck."

She shoved her hand back inside her jacket but it was too late. Joshua's brows had already lowered and he was charging at her. In an instant he thrust his hand inside her suit jacket, yanking the metal case out and snatching it from her. She scrambled to close her jacket again, feeling violated.

"That's mine," she said tensely, staring up at him through her tinted glasses. Joshua strode to the other side of the cave and slid the case on top of one of the tall cabinets that encircled them.

"It is, and fortunately for you God commands that I don't _take_ it from you," he said, turning to face her. He seemed to swell again. "You can have it back when you leave Zion."

"You've got to be kidding me," Joan narrowed her eyes, the pain in her finger temporarily forgotten. "You're about to cut off part of my goddamn finger! No doctor in Vegas would have an issue with this, it's not like I'm taking it for fun. I'm in fucking pain." Joshua stared at her hard for a moment before calming himself.

"I know you're in pain. I know you think you need the chems, but you _don't_ , I assure you," he said. He spread out his hands. "God doesn't give anything to us that we cannot withstand. I've survived this. I know you can too."

Joan's eyebrows creased together and she felt uncertain. Flattery and indignity warred within her. Joshua swept past her, drawing his pocketknife out of his vest; Joan stared at it transfixed and terrified all over again.

"I'm going to go sterilize this. I'll be back in a few minutes," he said, then paused, glancing at the cabinet the case was perched on top of. He glared at Joan with enough intensity that she shied away from him, her cheeks burning red. He didn't say anything further and left the cavern again.

Joan felt the strange not-calm again. In this happy bubble she could pretend he was never going to come back. If she tapped her heels together she would be in Vegas, having a drink on the balcony overlooking the Strip with Cass. The burning in her finger quickly jerked her back to reality. It's not so bad, she rationalized. She had been shot in the head. This would hurt, but it couldn't last more than a few minutes. And once Joshua was asleep she would absolutely come back and retrieve her Med-X; he could take his stupid Canaanite rules and shove them up his own scarred ass. She wished she could fast forward time, like she had read in a prewar novel, and that this would all be over with. That it could be tomorrow and things would be nice again, sitting next to Joshua at the picnic table with the other Dead Horses, breaking bread and being merry. Hell, maybe Follows-Chalk would show up unexpectedly and everyone would be happy and nothing bad would ever happen again. Might as well shoot for the moon.

"I want you to lie down," Joshua interrupted her thoughts, bringing her crashing back down to the Angel Cave. He was bent, spreading a worn Yao Guai fur on the floor. Joan flushed a deep red.

"Why?" she asked quickly. Her voice was shrill and she hated it.

"I need you to remain as still as possible. That will be easier if you're lying down and not sitting, trust me," he said. "I don't want to cut anything that isn't strictly necessary."

"You're already going to cut away unnecessary skin," Joan spat at him. Joshua inhaled deeply.

"We have to do this," he said, his tone stern. "I'm not doing it to hurt you. You don't want that to become infected. We have some limited means to deal with that if it did happen, but I'll be honest—it's nothing like the care you would receive in the Mojave. You can't afford to lose that finger if it came to it." Joan looked down at her forefinger in horror.

"What about Waking Cloud?" She asked, her voice small. Joshua looked apologetic.

"Not only is she on the other side of Zion right at this moment, but I wouldn't have her do this anyway. I've done this before and she hasn't. Besides," he paused, somber. "Her skills are in bringing life to the world. I'm… better suited to this task." Joan looked down, feeling ashamed of her outburst.

"You're right," she apologized. She still didn't move.

"Lie down," he insisted. She fidgeted with her tie and Joshua let out of groan of exasperation.

"I'm not going to fight you; I want to get this over with." He marched up to her and seized her upper arm, pulling her out off of her cinderblock seat as she yelped. She yanked her arm away from him and hopped down from the ledge, making her way to the furs spread out on the floor.

"Fine, fine," she said bitterly as she kneeled. She procrastinated, patting the furs out smooth before lying neatly down on top of them, smoothing out her suit jacket and skirt, straightening her tie as though she were putting herself in her own coffin. The jagged cave floor poked through the furs and she could feel it against her hips and shoulder blades. She tried to calm the storm within her. She tried to look anywhere other than at Joshua Graham towering above her, feeling self conscious. Her mind was trying to draw an allusion to an entirely different sort of situation and she pushed the thought away as her neck and ears flushed hot and pink.

Joshua sat beside her, hip to hip, with his back facing her. He threaded her arm between his torso and bicep, trapping her hand in front of him where she couldn't see it, her arm circling him in a parody of an embrace. She heard him open his knife with a sharp _flik_. For a moment she felt as though she would hyperventilate; he paused and looked over his shoulder at her, meeting her eyes.

"We can do this," he said. "I've been forged by the fire and I know that you're strong enough to survive it too." A touch of warmth spread through her at his words and she felt like she might be okay after all. She nodded at him, steeling herself. He turned away from her and she could feel his warm hand wrap around hers, giving her a reassuring squeeze before his grip hardened, holding her fingers in place. He cut into her.

Joan winced, though she had to admit the pain wasn't as bad as she thought it would be. She wondered if she was more afraid of the idea of pain than the reality of it, given that all the major pain she'd ever endured—that she could recall—had come at her swiftly and without warning. She couldn't even feel it really. He was right; the skin at the center of the burn was dead and gone. He sliced into her again and all she felt was pressure.

"I need you to let me know when I've hit anything sensitive," he said over his shoulder. Joan nodded again even though he couldn't see her.

Then he sliced again and this time she could feel it. She cried out and jerked in pain, her back arching off the rocky floor. He clamped down on her arm with his, holding her tight. It hurt like hell and she clenched the muscles in her legs as she tried to hold still. How can a single finger hurt _so fucking much_ , she thought wildly. The knife slipped into her again and it wasn't as bad this time; pressure and a touch of the fiery pain. She felt a small chunk of her finger slide away and bounce off the rest of her curled digits; she squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed.

Another cut and this one was worse than any that had come before it. She jerked around his arm, thrashing her legs and moaning with pain. Joshua was breathing faster as well as he fought to hold her arm still, bearing down on it with enough force to bruise. He leaned backward, pressing his back into her hip to try to force her to remain steady. A horrible keening noise came from Joan's throat, but she was in too much pain to care. Her heartbeat raged in her ears like stampeding brahmin as her free hand scraped at the cave floor. Joshua's fingers were clenched around her own, digging in painfully.

"I'm almost finished." Joshua's voice sounded thick and distant to her. She was gasping, her chest heaving to take in air, desperate for anything to relieve her of the fire searing through her finger, up her arm and into her heart. She panted as he continued to cut into her, taking more of the dead flesh this time, a blessed reprieve. Her lips were cracked and dry.

One more cut, and this time her agony was uncontrollable: she screamed as she thrashed wildly around him, her legs flailing and kicking, pounding his shoulder ineffectually with her free hand. She was hyperventilating now, choking on the dense air in the cave as she wailed, the cords of her neck popping out in sharp relief. Sweat poured down her brow and neck, pooling in the small of her back.

" _Stay still_!" he commanded, his voice rough and guttural, bearing all the way down on her, pressing his back into her chest and trapping her between his body and the floor of the cave. From his new position she could see her hand over his shoulder, thrust into the air for leverage. She could feel the muscles in Joshua's back tense and she stared in horror as he made one final cut; she saw blood surge from around the blade as it penetrated the wound, spattering onto his vest. She couldn't stop herself from sobbing in terror. Joshua jerked on top of her, his shoulder blades jabbing into her chest painfully. She squeezed her eyes shut, jerking and heaving underneath him as yet more terrible sobs came, her face soaking wet, tears running into her dark hair. Joshua lay on top of her, breathing hard for a moment before pushing himself off. It was done.

He stood; she didn't see the quiver in his legs. He stiffly walked across the room to retrieve the small bucket of water he had brought with him when he returned to the chamber earlier. He held it in front of him as he approached her before sitting with his back to her again. Joan's breathing was hitched and shuddery as she sprawled out limp and spent, too fatigued to even tremble. He took her slack hand gently and washed it, blood swirling in the water before turning it uniformly pale pink. He worked quickly. After a moment he lifted her hand from the water; there were deep red indents where he had been holding on to her, the edges already turning an ugly mottled yellow. The wound was clean at least—there were no traces of the necrotic flesh that had threatened to devour her finger. He pulled gauze out of his vest pocket and set about wrapping her finger yet again, binding it tight this time to combat the blood flow. Joan hissed behind him, wheezing again.

She stared, dazed, at his back as he hauled himself to his feet. The room swam around her, dark at the edges.

"Sleep in the cave tonight," he ordered without turning to look at her before quickly retreating. She stared at the ceiling of the cave for a moment before the room grew even dimmer around her. She gladly let the darkness consume her, falling backward with ease into the welcome nothingness.


	5. Complicated

Chapter 5: Complicated

 _Maim me, tame me, you can never change me_

Joan stretched out her thinly bandaged forefinger before curving it inward again into a small hook, testing herself. Several days had passed since the debridement. She couldn't even recall the day that had immediately followed it, fading in and out of a dazed sleep in the cool dark of the Angel Cave. Joshua had passed in and out a few times and he interacted with her only to clean the wound. The wound that, while it still hurt, was finally on the road to healing. Instead of a crisped and swollen sausage it now more or less resembled her other fingers, albeit with a large chunk missing in the center. Her hand—and arm—were marbled with varying shades of navy, plum and sickly ochre but otherwise functional.

The sun was waning in the sky above the camp, suspended just above the western canyon walls as Joan stood by the water, arms thrust out and holding an imaginary rifle, flexing her finger. Joshua approached her. He had been stiffly aloof in the days following that night in the cave but had slowly warmed up to her again.

"It's good that you're stretching your finger," he commented. "You don't want the scar to tighten and become stiff." He held up his own blackened and wrapped hands, waggling his fingers with ease. "It hurts, but it's worth it." Joan nodded at him.

"You know," he began, "I have a makeshift firing range set up. Why not come and practice a while?" He gestured to the winding path leading up to the ledges that overlooked the camp. Joan tilted her head back, looking at the cliffs warily.

"I appreciate the offer, but I have to conserve my ammo. 308's aren't exactly easy to find," she said, patting the sniper rifle she kept strapped to her back. Joshua contemplated her for a moment.

"Why not try my gun then?" he offered. He withdrew his personalized gun from his hip and racked the slide, popping the live round out before expertly flipping the barrel in his grip and handing it to her. Joan accepted, the snakeskin grip feeling alien in her hands. She hefted the gun, testing its weight.

"Huh, heavier than I would have thought," she said as they walked up the path together.

"It's a common complaint," he said. Joan smiled at the hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Not complaining, just surprised." They were standing at the top of the cliff now, and as he had promised, there were several paper targets lined up before them. Most of them were battered and punctured with holes. Joan attempted to line up a shot before doubling over, laughing. Joshua arched his eyebrows at her.

"Sorry, sorry," she apologized, wiping her eyes with her free hand, still grinning.

"It's just so small!" She waved his gun in the air. She didn't know why this line of thought struck her as hilariously as it did until she looked up and saw Joshua's face. His eyes were subtly narrowed at her. The unintended innuendo she had made dawned on her and she turned a deep rosy pink. She cleared her throat loudly and tugged at the collar of her shirt.

"I'm terrible with a pistol," she said quickly, eager to change the subject. Joshua seemed fine with this as well.

"I've seen you use that sniper rifle more than effectively," he said as he gestured at her gun. She shrugged at him.

"It's different. My aim is shaky and all over the place. I couldn't hit the broad side of brahmin with a pistol, I don't know why. Sniper rifles are just easier."

"You can't use a sniper rifle for everything."

"And I don't. If I have to fight someone in close quarters, I use my knife," she said, patting the sheathed blade under her skirt. Joshua looked at her skeptically. She was small and skinny and they both knew it. "I'm still alive aren't I?"

"That seems impractical, especially for you," he replied.

"Which is why I try not to let it get to that point," she explained, kneeling briefly to set Joshua's gun on the ground. "I want to be the last thing they never see."

"Just lie in the grass, steady your breath," she continued as she lifted her hands, holding an imaginary sniper rifle. She inhaled deeply.

"Line up your shot." She looked down the nonexistent scope, capturing Joshua's face in her make-believe crosshairs as he watched her, his expression detached.

She squeezed the trigger.

"Boom. Headshot. That easy."

Joshua bent, swiping his gun off the ground and dusting it off.

"Just try it," he said. She faltered, her hands dropping. He swept his arm past her toward the paper targets. "Try your hand at it anyway," he clarified, handing the gun back to her. She relaxed and accepted it with a nervous chuckle.

"If you're sure. It's your ammo," she said, finally lining up an actual shot. A shot that flew wide of the target, completely missing it. Joan sighed, annoyed. She tried again, at least managing to nick to corner of the large paper square in front of her. She tried one more time, completely missing the target again, wincing at the pain shooting up her arms, especially the bruised one.

"See?" she said, spinning around to face him. "I just can't get the hang of it."

"I can already see what you're doing wrong," he chided her. "Your stance is all wrong, too stiff. You have your arms stuck out so that you're not absorbing any of the recoil," he paused. "It hurts, doesn't it? But it's easy to correct." He held out his hand and she gave him his pistol back. He assumed the correct stance, one foot in front of the other, steady as a rock. His arms were relaxed as he brought them up, aiming down the sights. Two quick shots, both landing neatly within the center space of the target.

"Try it again," he said, handing the pistol back to her. It was warm.

Joan did her best to mimic his stance, planting her feet firmly.

"Don't lean. Relax your shoulders," Joshua corrected her. She tried to, breathing deeply. She lined up a shot. It hit the target this time, just outside the perimeter of the outermost circle.

"Here." He stepped behind her. She felt several degrees warmer, even in the cooling air as the sun continued its slow descent. She could feel him hesitate before he rested his hands on her hips, arranging the stance of her feet. The cazadors thrashed to life again, this time buzzing somewhere south of her navel and she swallowed hard. Quickly his hands were off of her, this time tapping gently on the back brim of her hat so that she tilted her head up slightly higher.

"Now raise your arms just a hair." She obeyed.

"Now try again," he said, maintaining his position. She squeezed the trigger. The bullet buried itself near the edge of the innermost circle and she felt a surge of satisfaction. Invigorated she pulled the trigger again, then a second time, only to be met with impotent clicking. Joshua chuckled, stepping away from her.

"Aw damn," she huffed, handing the gun back to him. He swiftly reloaded it before handing it back to her.

"You can keep going. I can already see you improving."

The afternoon faded into the evening as Joan practiced under Joshua Graham's measured guidance. After just an hour she was seeing a notable difference in the quality of her shooting; none of her bullets missed the target now, though most of them were still firmly in the outer rings. Still, a few bullets were securely lodged in the center. She was grinning and tired by the end of it, the pain in her finger outweighed by the thrill of learning a new skill. Joshua had directed her with a commander's efficiency, bluntly instructive but never cold or cruel. By the end of the afternoon he was leaning against a tree watching her with his arms folded across his chest and nodding at her every time she turned to look at him for needy approval.

"You did well today," he said as he pushed himself off the tree after she had depleted one last magazine. "You'll need to continue practicing to get any better, but you're off to a good start. You're a fast learner." She sucked up the compliment as a thirsty plant would take in the rain, swelling with pride.

"Thank you," she said, handing his gun back to him. He reloaded it before tucking it back into its home on his hip. "I don't know how much I'll be able to retain after I leave, but I'll do my best. It was nice to learn something new."

They began their descent back into the Dead Horses camp before Joan stopped. She breathed in steadily and looked out over the Eastern Virgin. She flexed her finger again. It was healing nicely now that the necrotic flesh wasn't hindering the growth of the good living tissue anymore. Which meant that it was almost time to leave. She longed to return home, to see Arcade, Boone and Cass again. To see Yes Man again. But another part of her was loathe to leave the secluded bubble that was Zion. It felt like an entirely separate, simpler life here, like Vegas might as well be on another planet. A deeper part of her wanted to stay close to the camp, close to… She switched off her thoughts.

"You're a good leader," she blurted out, unfiltered. Joshua stopped walking, turning to look back at her. He looked genuinely surprised.

"You're good at teaching. You don't accept anything less than the best you think people have to give," she was speaking quickly, rambling, her face bright under the darkening sky.

"I know you said you don't have any mind for logistics and leadership, but I think you're not giving yourself enough credit," she rushed forward, in too deep to stop now. It was as though time had suspended on the path down to the camp as the two took each other in.

"You _should_ lead the Dead Horses. The Sorrows. The Canaanites. They look up to you, I've seen it every day I've been here. You're what they need." She couldn't stop herself from fidgeting, her fingers rustling at her tie. Joshua looked at her with renewed appreciation, and she met his gaze, feeling herself burning inside. There was a long pause.

"Thank you," he said quietly and sincerely. Joan smiled at him before quickly walking down the path before them again. Joshua matched her pace and they walked side by side down into the camp to join the rest of the Canaanites.

A couple days later Joan was packing up her few belongings, standing in the middle of the Angel Cave. Joshua sat at his work table a few feet away, meticulously cleaning a gun with a rag and a short stick. Joan was staring up at the cabinet. Just beyond her sight was the case of Med-X.

Behind her, Joshua sighed. He pushed himself away from the table and walked past her. He reached up and retrieved the case with ease. Joan lit up.

"I said I would give it back to you before you left," he said. There was no hint of anger in his tone, just a resigned sort of annoyance. He handed the case to her and she accepted it, slipping it back where it belonged inside the jacket of her suit.

"I'll spare you the lecture," he said, and beneath his bandages she could see his lips purse together with distaste. "Just at least honor my wishes and wait until you're out of sight of the Dead Horses and Sorrows. I don't want them to think that they need that poison." Comprehension dawned on Joan.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I won't. My finger doesn't hurt nearly as much now anyway," she said as she flexed her finger. It was still bound with bandages but was looking better every day. At least better compared to what it was. Thick gnarled scars had finally begun to form, as darkly crimson as the ones Joshua bore. Joan glanced at the oil lamp, sitting innocently on the work table.

"That's good to hear," Joshua said, turning back to the table. Within a minute he had the gun reassembled, looking brand new. It looked just like his, the grip inlaid with snakeskin. Only the inscription was missing. He paused before turning to her again.

"I want you to have this," he said, presenting the pistol to her. He had been toiling over it for the past half hour as Joan gathered her things around him, oblivious. Her eyebrows shot up over the rim of her tinted glasses and her mouth gaped open.

"That's… I couldn't," she held her hands up, feeling a strong blush creeping up her neck already. The corners of Joshua's eyes bowed with a smile.

"I insist. You've really come around in the last two days. Even if you did—" he paused, sucking in an agitated breath as he narrowed his eyes at her. "Even if you did leave an _idiot scratch_ on my gun." Joan looked away, embarrassed.

"I didn't mean to," she said defensively. He sighed, pushing the annoyance away.

"I know you didn't. Just… remember what I taught you about reassembling it," he said, pressing the gun into her hands. He held her hands in his for a moment, the gun cocooned within them and Joan looked up at him. The cazadors were out in full force today. Joshua seemed to hesitate as they stood there, staring at each other.

"You've been a good friend to us. God be with you," he said with an air of finality. Joan deflated a bit as Joshua released her and returned to his work table to sit. She tucked the gun into her pack and hoisted it over her shoulder, bittersweet. She wanted to tell him she would miss him. She did not do this.

"God be with you too," she said, turning away from him and finally exiting the Angel Cave. She resisted the urge to look back at him; he watched her as she left the cave before getting back to work, cleaning and oiling a fresh stack of guns for his Canaanites.


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue

 _So now you turn your back on everything that you used to preach. It's let him live in freedom if he lives like me. Well your light has changed, confusion reigns, what have you become?_

Four Years Later - 2286

 _"—_ _Business on the New Vegas Strip is booming in the wake of the freshly reconstructed Vault 21. A crew of workers brought in from Nipton has been hard at work for the past year excavating the concrete piped in by the late Robert House. Sign up for a tour of the Vault and don't forget to pick up your copy of "Duck and Cover" from your friendly neighborhood Securitron. But don't worry; the gift shop remains open!_ _Gonna play a song for you now; It's about that special someone you only find once... in a Blue Moon."_

Joan was bent over the table that she had dragged in front of the wall of terminals in the Penthouse of the Lucky 38. Sinatra quietly crooned to her from the radio on her Pipboy as she traced her finger across a worn and ripped prewar map of the United States of America.

"I still think this idea is too extreme," Arcade said, standing across the table from her. He looked tired.

"I agree." Boone's arms were folded over his chest. He offered no further opinion.

"Yeah well if you've got a better idea, put up or shut up." Cass was hovering beside Joan as she inspected the map with a practiced eye.

"I think it's a _swell_ idea!" Yes Man chimed in. Joan remained focused; Arcade, Boone and Cass twisted to look at the great smiling face looming over them. Each wore an identical expression of distaste. Even after all these years they still thought Joan's reliance on him was unusual at best; creepy and weird at worst. Joan idly waved her hand in the air, recalling their attention.

"I have to. You know that," she said.

"They're just rumors though. I mean really, manufacturing p _eople_? That can't be right. They've just got to be glorified robots," Arcade replied. Boone nodded. "That's if they even exist at all. It could be a hoax."

"I don't know," Cass drawled. "Back when I was working the caravan, I heard some talk about that too. And that was fifteen years ago. That's a long ass time for a joke." Joan looked up at her and smiled. At least someone's got my back, she thought.

"The Legion isn't a joke," Boone stated flatly. The group paused and turned to look at him. It had long been the elephant in the room of this plan; Joan fiddled with the knot in her tie.

"Boone is right. This is fucking insane. Two women, traveling through Legion territory, alone? And you," Arcade thrust a long finger out at Joan. "You're not exactly inconspicuous. You know that psycho still has it out for you. How many assassins has he sent after you over the years? And Christ," he paused, sucking in air. "It's like he even _expected_ them to fuck up and die. Those notes—"

" _I know_!" Joan slapped her hand on the table. She still had the small scraps of paper sitting impaled on a spindle deep within the bowels of her desk down in the Presidential Suite. Notes that detailed her whereabouts, things she had been doing, each of them picked off a would-be assassin. One of them even had a rare photograph: her smiling and laughing with a drink in hand as she spun a great roulette wheel at the Tops, blissfully and completely unaware. Frustration interlaced with fear within her.

"Jesus Christ, Arcade, do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I survived all of this," Joan stood tall—as tall as her tiny frame would allow—and swept her arm out, gesturing at herself and the room around them. "—just to wind up captured by that sick fuck? I'm better than that, smarter than that. Cass knows what this is like, she's done it before. The Legion leaves caravans alone. That hasn't changed. We will be fine." She firmly enunciated each word as if that would better prove her point and reassure the room around her.

"Don't underestimate Vulpes Inculta," Boone cut in, resting his own hands on the table in a rare outward display. Joan recoiled before steadying herself. Though she knew it was irrational, hearing the name spoken aloud caused the fine hairs on the back of her neck to rise. As if his Frumentarii couldn't see her, couldn't watch her, couldn't know her every movement; if she continued to ignore his existence.

"You saw that photo," Cass said. "Those bombs."

Joan slid her hand backward across the table, grasping the edge tightly. That was right, there had been one other photo. A grainy photograph of a stack of EMP grenades, neatly labeled in case the point had been missed. Joan hadn't felt such a sharp stab of horror in years as the day she had picked that picture off the fresh corpse of a disguised Frumentarii. EMP grenades—the very tool that had allowed Benny to create Yes Man. A blessing for her; a curse in the wrong hands. Boone was wrong—she had never underestimated Vulpes Inculta. If anyone was smart enough to use her own technology against her, it would be him. Of all the fucking people to survive the Fortification Hill massacre, she thought bitterly. Of course. Their one forward thinker, the only Legionary who seemed unafraid to think outside the box, as Caesar himself had put it. Even if the idea hadn't occurred to him to steal one of her precious Securitrons for his own purposes, he had made his intentions deathly clear—he knew her army's single weakness.

Against all odds, even against Joshua Graham's and Ulysses's predictions, the Legion had not faded away and dissolved. It had withdrawn to lick its wounds in the year following the second Battle for Hoover Dam, but had resurged; risen from the ashes like a phoenix, with a new leader: Vulpes Inculta. Joan inhaled.

"That's why I have to do this. We can't risk losing this, everything I've worked for. I won't let the people of Vegas be enslaved, I won't let him take them from me." She stared pointedly at Boone and Arcade. Boone did not move; Arcade withdrew, looking defeated.

"It's a risk I have to take. If I can manufacture fake people, make my own army," her voice lowered in pitch, strengthening. "I'll finally be able to take the fight to them, without the Mojave being compromised. The Securitrons can hold the fort here, and make sure the NCR doesn't get any smart ideas and I can finally wipe out the Legion." Boone stepped back, pacified by the thought of finally destroying his greatest enemy. Cass withdrew a flask from her jacket and lifted it up, whooping.

"Fuck yeah! We can do it!"

Joan grinned, reinvigorated. Arcade sighed.

"Why not at least head north? Why travel across Arizona and New Mexico? It just doesn't make sense." Joan paused and the room was silent for a moment. She dimly registered the sound of Mr. New Vegas on the radio once again.

 _"—_ _and these are our top stories: Disturbing reports have been coming in from Utah about a group known as the Canaanites, led by the infamous Burned Ma—"_

Joan quickly flipped the dial on her Pipboy, switching the radio off before grasping the table again. She met Arcade's eyes and tried to suppress the color rising in her neck and cheeks. Her forefinger ached as it pressed against the underside of the table.

"I'm doing what I have to do, Arcade. Just trust me. Please?" They stared at each other for a long moment before Arcade finally caved.

"Alright. I hope you know what you're doing." He sighed again, looking more worn and put-upon than ever before giving Joan a wry half-smile.

"I've heard good things about Boston, at least," He said. Joan brightened and the room seemed to cheer up around them.

"Hopefully not as good as what I've heard. Those things, Synths? They're going to be _mine_."

 _All your olive branches turn to spears_

 _When your flowers turn to guns_

Thank you very much for reading! Part two will begin posting tomorrow.

A list of songs that I used in the summary, chapter titles, and the name of the fic itself:

Which Way Are You Going - Jim Croce  
Better Strangers - Royal Blood  
Hole In Your Heart - Royal Blood  
I Walk the Line - Johnny Cash  
Fire - Barns Courtney  
I Think I'm Paranoid - Garbage  
Obsession - OK Go

Despite a love of swing and big band that long predates my love of Fallout, most songs from that era were not... dark enough for this haha. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it.


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